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Does anyone know the answer to this?
I mean, my kitchen knife takes on dozens, nay, hundreds of fights every week. In every one—from apples, to cheeses, to clothing store security tags—the knife always wins. The knife never sighs, cries, or whinces, but over time it loses its edge. Literally.
Do I needed to be concerned about my level of knife-molecule digestion?
Cher-pas (n.): A social misstep in the tradition of Cher. (ex: Jenny made a major Cherpas by straddling that cannon on the deck of the battleship during the Evelyn’s tea party.)
Cher-haps (conj.): events conditional upon, or ironic because of, the presence of Cher. (ex: Stephen missed the lunar eclipse Cherhaps he was watching Moonstruck.)
New Yorkers reach a point where they catch themselves saying things like “Oh my god! Is that a bedbug?! Oh, wait. No, it’s just mouse shit.” And couldn’t be happier about it! Ask anyone and you’ll hear their personal hatred-rankings for: bedbugs, mice, roaches, crime, slum lords, loud Latino music, and stairs. [Personally: 1, 5, 4, 2, 7, 3, 8]
Recently, while reliving myself at 3am—like a gentleman—in a daze of semi-consciousness, I was suddenly embroiled in a Darwinian cage match between a quasi-nude self and a small mouse. He darted out from a crevasse, then searched for an exit side-to-side along the bottom of the door like a floating Pac-Mac ghost. My reaction was completely rational—a full-body heave, windless scream of hot blue fear, and climbing the porcelain surroundings as if avoiding an acid tide. Our face-off carried on for several minutes [read: seconds] until the brave flightless pigeonette rushed toward the darkness behind me.
After regaining consciousness, I reflected upon the fact that my ancestors would have been overjoyed to see a mouse. We used to hunt these things; tt would be as if a strawberry Pop-Tart were attacking me, as if I had panicked over a Totino’s pizzaroll. The shame!
Although in both cases, I would prefer to eat it hot—not unlike a mouse.
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